Henry II. (1154-1189).
When King Henry II. ascended the throne in 1154, he was the most
powerful monarch that had ever reigned in England, and one of the
most powerful in Christendom. To his hereditary possessions,
Anjou, Normandy, and Maine, and his beautiful kingdom of England,
he had added by his marriage with Eleanor of Aquitaine, Poitou,
and Aquitaine, which comprised Saintonge, Auvergne, Perigord,
Limousin, Angoumois, and Guienne.
{147}
He was ambitious and greedy of power. His father, who knew him
well, had provided by his will that Anjou should return to his
second son Geoffrey, if the eldest should become King of England,
and in order to secure this arrangement he had forbidden his own
interment before Henry should have sworn to conform to it. The
prince hesitated long, then took the oath, and Count Geoffrey
Plantagenet was consigned to the tomb. But Henry had become king
and his brother had claimed the execution of his promise. The
monarch contrived to be relieved of his oath by Nicholas
Breakspeare, who had been raised to the pontifical dignity under
the name of Adrian IV., the only Englishman who has ever become
Pope. Henry Plantagenet retained Anjou, the cradle of that family
which he was destined to render so powerful.
When the new king landed in England, six weeks after the death of
Stephen, he found his kingdom a prey to horrible anarchy. In the
intervals of their power Maud and Stephen had both endeavored to
attach to themselves the great nobles by important grants of
lands and castles: hence the royal domains were reduced to
insignificance and were surrounded on all sides by menacing
fortresses guarded by resolute soldiers who recognized no
authority but that of their chiefs. Many of these fortresses were
in the hands of Flemish and Brabantine mercenaries whom each
party in turn had summoned to their assistance. It was by dealing
with these men that Henry began the reform which he reckoned upon
introducing into the condition of territorial property. On a
given day, to the great joy of the Normans and Saxons, he ordered
all foreigners to leave the kingdom. "We saw them (says a
chronicler), we saw all those Brabantines and Flemings recross
the sea to return to their plough-tails, and from being lords
become serfs again."
{148}
The expulsion of the foreign mercenaries had been popular; but
this was not the principal object of the king, who desired to
reconstitute the royal domain, and with that object convoked a
grand council, which admitted, though not without difficulty,
that Henry was under the necessity of resuming the grants made by
Stephen and Maud. The king was not more sparing of the partisans
of his mother than of her enemies. From the moment that right was
on his side he never stopped in his efforts: from castle to
castle, from domain to domain, he triumphed over the malcontents,
either by the sword or by negotiation. When he became master of
one fortress he instantly had it razed to the ground. In this way
eleven hundred castles disappeared from the face of England; they
had been mere haunts of robbers who oppressed the country
roundabout. The peasants and the townspeople applauded the work
of destruction.
King Henry had already triumphed over his vassals and defeated
his brother Geoffrey, who had refused to acquiesce in his
spoliation. He had compelled him to take refuge at Nantes, the
population of which town had offered him the government. In 1157
he came to the determination to bring to an end the struggle with
the Welsh, who were still fighting proudly for their
independence. But Henry did not know well that country of
mountains and defiles. He became entangled in the environs of the
forest of Coleshill, and the Welsh sallying forth in a mass from
the obscure lurking-places where they had been lying in ambush,
fell upon the English army. The massacre was great. The Earl of
Essex, hereditary standard-bearer of the crown, let fall the
royal banner, and took to flight. The rumor spread abroad at once
that the king was killed, but he soon rallied his troops and
effected his retreat to a more open country, where he pitched his
camp, and thence inflicted so much annoyance on the Welsh that
without venturing a second time upon a fixed battle they
consented to restore to Henry the territory which they had won
back from Stephen, and to swear fidelity and homage to him for
the lands which they retained.
{149}
The struggles of King Henry with the Welsh were not ended.
Repeated insurrections were destined to recall him into the
mountains; but he succeeded nevertheless in securing and
extending his dominion over that indomitable population, proud of
the antiquity of their race, and convinced that all England
belonged to them by right of birth.
Geoffrey had lately died at Nantes (1158) and his brother claimed
that city as belonging to him by inheritance. In vain the
citizens protested: in vain Conan, duke of Brittany, and earl of
Richmond in England, maintained the rights of his vassals, King
Henry confiscated the lands of the Earl of Richmond and crossed
the sea with so powerful an army that the inhabitants of Nantes
were terrified and opened their gates to him. Henry immediately
took possession of all the territory between the Loire and the
Vilaine, and proposed to the duke to terminate their differences
by affiancing his daughter Constance to Geoffrey, the third of
the English princes. In order to obtain the consent of the King
of France, Louis VII., to this increase of his power upon French
soil, Henry had sought the hand of Margaret of France on behalf
of Henry, his eldest son.
This gleam of a good understanding between the great powers of
the earth was very soon disturbed by new ambitious dreams of
Henry Plantagenet. Eleanor of Aquitaine had, or believed herself
to have through her grandmother, claims to the countship of
Toulouse. Her first husband, Louis VII., had relinquished those
rights by treaty after an attempt to seize them by force of arms;
but by virtue of the divorce, Eleanor had vested her pretensions
in her second husband, Henry, king of England, who claimed the
cession pure and simple of the countship by Raymond of St.
Gilles, count of Toulouse.
{150}
The latter invoked the aid of his suzerain lord, the King of
France. In the prospect of this distant struggle, Henry commuted
the military service which his vassals were bound to render into
a tax, and by means of this money he secured the services of an
army of Brabantines. With these marched Malcolm, king of
Scotland; and the King of Aragon, who like the King of France and
the Duke of Brittany had lately affianced his daughter to one of
the sons of Henry, and the most warlike of the English barons.
But Louis VII. had already entered Toulouse, when Henry advanced
against that city. Louis had but few troops with him and the King
of England might easily have attempted an assault: scruples based
upon his position of vassal of his lord, however, restrained him.
When the French army had joined Louis VII. a few feats of arms of
little importance soon brought the war to an end; but it had left
indelible traces. The inhabitants of the south of France had
acquired the habit of calling to their aid sometimes the King of
France, sometimes the King of England, and their independence was
destined to succumb under these powerful protectors. It was so
well known upon the banks of the Garonne that the southern
provinces were at peace when their dangerous allies were
quarrelling elsewhere that people openly asked, in the form of a
prayer, "When will the truce between the English and the Tournois
come to an end?"
In the midst of these wars and negotiations, these invasions and
these treaties. King Henry relied on all sides upon the advice
and the support of Thomas Becket, or à Becket, chancellor of
England, the son of Gilbert à Becket, a merchant of the city of
London, of Norman origin.
{151}
A romantic story attaches to the birth of Thomas Becket. It is
related that the busy passers-by in the streets of London, had,
to their great surprise, observed one day a woman wearing
Oriental costume who was wandering about repeating the name of
Gilbert. To questions put to her she gave no answer, and she knew
no other English words than "Gilbert" and "London." The people
around her had begun to murmur, when she was recognized by a
servant who had accompanied Gilbert Becket to the crusades. Both
had been made prisoners and had succeeded in escaping: but the
daughter of the Emir who had held them captive had conceived a
passion for Gilbert; she had followed his traces to the shore and
had found means of going to England, and then to London, without
any other guide to the whereabouts of him she loved than this
name of Gilbert, at that time a very common one. Becket consulted
his confessor; the Saracen princess was baptized under the name
of Matilda, and Gilbert married her. Her husband made a great
fortune and his son Thomas, a handsome and intelligent youth, had
been brought up with great care, then sent into France and Italy
to finish his education. He had been taken notice of from his
childhood by Theobald, archbishop of Canterbury, who took him
into his house as soon as he had completed his studies and
employed him in the most delicate diplomatic affairs, when at the
accession of King Henry II. he himself fulfilled the functions of
prime minister. The king took a liking to the young archdeacon,
and in 1156 appointed him chancellor, at the same time confiding
to him the education of his eldest son. He also made him
constable of the Tower, with the custody of considerable domains.
The ecclesiastical benefices often vacant, which the chancellor
was in no haste to fill up, caused to flow into the treasury the
rich revenues of the bishoprics and abbeys.
{152}
Gilbert Becket was dead, and his son had inherited a great
fortune. He was forty years of age, elegant in his person
magnificent in his attire, skilled in all bodily exercises, and
at the same time learned, courageous, enterprising, and able. The
king, who saw only through his eyes, kept him incessantly at his
side, and could not endure his absence. Becket kept a splendid
retinue, remarkable, even at that period of magnificent
extravagance. His house was filled with knights and daughters of
great lords who designed to secure by this means the favor of the
king, and to bring up their children in the manners of the court.
His sumptuously furnished table was open to all comers, and when
a diplomatic mission led the chancellor abroad, the retinue which
accompanied him was so magnificent and so numerous that the
spectators exclaimed, "What must the king of England be, when his
servant travels with such pomp?" It was in this way that Thomas
Becket presented himself at the French court to negotiate on the
affair of Brittany and the alliance of Prince Henry with Margaret
of France. With similar grand display, although of a different
nature, he accompanied the king in his campaign through the
countship of Toulouse, of which he directed in person the greater
part of the operations. He was at the head of seven hundred
knights and men of arms, supported at his expense, when he
attacked the town of Cahors and the castles which surrounded it.
His sagacity, his good humor, his caustic and fertile wit were to
the king a continual source of amusement. He lived with his
favorite in almost brotherly intimacy, and the administrative
talents which the chancellor displayed in domestic affairs added
to his popularity. "I will make thee Archbishop of Canterbury,"
Henry often said. Becket smiled and shook his head. When the
prior of Leicester, a rigid ecclesiastic, reproached him with the
worldliness and outward show of his mode of living, reminding him
that he was destined to become primate of England, the chancellor
exclaimed, "I know three poor priests more fitted than I for that
dignity. If ever I attained it, I should either lose the king's
favor, or forget my duty towards God."
{153}
The Archbishop Theobald was dead (1161). For thirteen months the
king left the see vacant, in order to appropriate its revenues:
but he did not lose sight of the choice on which he had resolved.
Becket was devoted to him: he had always displayed great respect
for the royal prerogative, exacting so rigorously what was due to
the crown, even from the clergy, that the Bishop of London,
Gilbert Folliot, accused him angrily of plunging a dagger into
the maternal bosom of his Church. Henry believed himself sure of
thus raising to the ecclesiastical supremacy a friend who would
support him in the reforms which he was meditating. He sent for
Thomas Becket at Toulouse, where he happened to be, and ordered
him to set out immediately for England, where he would be elected
archbishop of Canterbury. Becket smiled as he pointed to the
magnificent dress in which he was clothed. "You choose fine
dresses to figure at the head of your monks at Canterbury," he
said. "If you do as you say, sire, you will hate me very soon as
much as you now love me; for you will meddle in the affairs of
the Church more than I can consent to, and people will not be
wanting to embroil us."
The king paid no heed to the views of the chancellor. The bishops
and the chapter of Canterbury proclaimed Becket unanimously, with
the exception of Gilbert Folliot, who had hoped to secure that
promotion for himself. The new archbishop received the order of
priesthood, for he was hitherto only a deacon, and he was
consecrated by Henry of Winchester, brother of King Stephen. The
pallium was brought from Rome, and Becket took possession of the
archiepiscopal throne.
{154}
In placing his hand upon the pastoral crozier Becket had
completely changed his way of living. From the most ostentatious
luxury he suddenly passed to the austerest life. No more
festivities; no more horses; no more sumptuous clothing. The rich
revenues were expended in alms; the archbishop had resigned his
position as chancellor, saying that he could not do justice to
the affairs of the king as well as those of the Church. Henry was
astonished at this transformation; but as yet it caused him no
irritation. When the court returned to England the archbishop
conducted his royal pupil to his father and the king exhibited
towards him the affection and the confidence to which he had been
accustomed.
Meanwhile the storm was approaching. Becket had resolved to
restore to the see of Canterbury its primitive splendor; and to
take back from the hands of the despoiler the property of which
the chapter had been deprived by slow degrees. This measure,
similar to that which Henry had long before applied to the crown
property, seemed to the king objectionable when the matter in
hand was the lands of the archbishopric. Becket even dared to
demand a castle, and he had excommunicated a vassal holding
directly from the crown who had expelled a priest from his
domains. It was with an ill will and after much difficulty that
the archbishop withdrew his sentence in obedience to the king's
orders.
While these clouds were gathering in the sky Henry was preparing
a measure fatal to the good understanding between himself and his
favorite. The priests and all those who depended, directly or
indirectly, on the Church, had the right of being judged
exclusively by ecclesiastical tribunals; and clerical justice was
accused of great partiality.
{155}
Its very laws forbade the shedding of blood. Thus a servant of
the Church could not be condemned to death even for murder, and
this assurance often led to the most odious crimes, the
repression of which was uncertain. The king had resolved to
remedy this inconvenience by requiring that every priest degraded
for his misdeeds should be given up to the civil tribunals, who
should judge him in their turn. Becket maintained that it would
be unjust to judge and punish twice the same culprit. The greater
number of the bishops were of his opinion. The king shifted the
question: "Will you," he asked the assembly of prelates, "swear
to maintain the ancient customs of the realm?" "Save the honor of
our order," replied all the bishops, with the exception of Hilary
of Chichester. The king was furious. He convoked a great council
at Clarendon (January 25, 1164), where he presented to the
bishops a series of decrees and laws regulating the relations of
the civil and ecclesiastical tribunals, which have since been
known under the name of "The Constitutions of Clarendon." He had
striven to intimidate the bishops by stripping Becket of the
castles and the titles which he had given to him long before.
Alternately threatening and yielding, the archbishop had arrived
at Clarendon: he had consented to sign the Constitutions; the act
was complete, and it only remained now to affix the seals when
Becket was seized with remorse. "I will never affix my seal to
this," he said, and without listening to the representations of
his colleagues, or the counsels of the Grand Master of the
Templars, or taking heed of the anger of the king, who had left
the hall of council in a fit of rage, he remounted his horse and
returned gloomily to Canterbury, lamenting over his sins as the
cause of the enslavement of the Church in England. "I was taken
from the court to become a bishop--vain and proud as I was--not
from the school of the Saviour, but from the palace of Cæsar.
{156}
I was a feeder of birds, and I was suddenly called on to be the
pastor of men; I was the patron of of mummers and took delight in
following the hounds. I have become the keeper of many souls. I
neglected my own vineyard, and now I am entrusted with the
vineyard of others." He fasted and prayed, refusing to ascend the
steps of the altar; and he found no rest until the Pope had sent
him absolution for his failings. The pontiff had not ratified the
Constitutions of Clarendon.
The king had not abandoned his project. His anger was directed
against the archbishop, whom he rightly regarded as the only
serious obstacle to his designs. He summoned him to appear before
his council which met at Southampton (October 1164), under
pretext of a denial of justice on the part of his archiepiscopal
court. Becket excused himself, but was condemned to forfeit his
personal property, a sentence which was commuted into a fine of
five hundred pounds sterling. The charges against him were not
yet exhausted. A demand was made for the rents which he had
received from lands given to him by the king. The archbishop
promised payment. Each day brought some new claim. The king, who
was furious against his old favorite, demanded at length a sum of
44,000 marks of silver, on account of the ecclesiastical revenues
which Becket had appropriated as chancellor during the vacancies
of the sees. This was absolute ruin, and war to the knife. The
archbishop replied that it was not in his power to pay such a
sum, and that he had been declared free from all such claims when
he had resigned his place as chancellor in order to become
Primate of England. At the same time he requested a conference
with the bishops; but all had abandoned him. Henry of Winchester
alone proposed to pay the sums demanded of the archbishop.
{157}
The king would not listen to him. "What he desires is your
resignation," said the Bishops of London and Winchester to
Becket. "The life of this man is in danger," exclaimed the Bishop
of Lincoln. "He will lose his bishopric or his life; and I would
like to know of what use his bishopric will be when he is dead."
Under the effects of so many violent emotions the archbishop had
been taken ill; he sincerely believed himself to be bound to
maintain the juridical rights of the Church, and in his mind this
cause was absolutely identified with the cause of God. To allow
the ecclesiastical privileges to be trammelled by the royal
authority, appeared to him "an act of treason against the Lord
God who had elevated him, unworthy as he was, to the office of
pastor of souls." Defeated and troubled, he at one time thought
of throwing himself at the king's feet, and begging him to spare
the Church for the sake of their old friendship; but Becket's was
a proud and ungovernable spirit, and such humiliation appeared
impossible to him; he therefore resolved to fight it out to the
last. It was on the 18th of October, 1164, that he was to appear
before the court to receive his final sentence. Clad in his
episcopal robes, he celebrated mass in honor of St. Stephen, the
first martyr; and then, after laying down his mitre, he advanced,
holding a crucifix in his hand, and followed by the priests into
the council-chamber. As he was entering, the Bishop of Hereford
came to him, with the intention of taking the crucifix from him.
"Allow me to keep it, my lord," he said; "it is the banner of the
Prince whom I serve." The Bishop of London, Gilbert Folliot, was
there, and also wished to take the crucifix from the hands of the
prelate. "You defy the king," cried he, "by coming in this garb
to his court; but the king holds a sword, the point of
which is sharper than your crucifix."
{158}
The archbishop had, however, entered the council-chamber, and on
seeing him Henry blushed deeply and hastily retired. The
archbishop sat down, but the bishops had been called away by the
king; discord reigned in the royal chamber. Henry was furious,
and railed bitterly first against the obstinacy of the
archbishop, and then against the cowardice of his own advisers.
The Archbishop of York retired, calling all his followers, in
order, as he said, to avoid seeing bloodshed. The Bishop of
Exeter went and threw himself at Becket's feet, imploring him to
give in and to save his life. "Go," said the archbishop, "you do
not understand those things which are of God." At length the
bishops returned with Hilary of Chichester at their head. "You
were our primate," he said, "but in putting yourself in
opposition to the royal will you have broken your oath of
allegiance; a perjured archbishop has no longer any claim upon
our obedience; we will submit the affair to the pope, and call
upon you to answer before him for your conduct." "I understand,"
replied the archbishop coldly.
The noblemen had followed the bishops, and the Earl of Leicester
approached Becket. "Hear your sentence," he began. "My sentence!"
cried Becket; "my son, listen to me first: you know how
faithfully I have served the king, and with what repugnance I
accepted this duty to please him. You are my children in God; can
a son sit in judgment on his father? I take exception to your
tribunal and appeal to the Pope. I place myself, as well as my
Church, under his protection, and summon the bishops who have
obeyed the king rather than their God, to answer at that
tribunal; it is under the protection of the Holy Catholic Church
and of the apostolic see that I leave this court."
{159}
He had risen from his seat, and all the bishops had done
likewise; followed by his priests, he strode slowly across the
room; the courtiers insulted him and threw at him the bundles of
straw which covered the floor. Somebody called out "traitor."
"Were it not for the garments which I wear, that coward would
repent his insolence," said the archbishop, who then mounted his
horse, while he was saluted by the cries of the people who were
prostrating themselves and asking his benediction. The prelate
caused the doors of the monastery in which he resided to be
opened, and the poor entered in crowds, the archbishop giving
them a supper, and sitting down to table with them himself.
The Scriptures were being read, and Becket was struck by these
words of the Lord: "If you are persecuted in one town, fly to
another." He sent to the king for a passport. "You shall be
answered to-morrow," was the message sent back from the palace.
The friends of Becket were in great fear. "This night will be
your last if you do not fly," said the clergy. The archbishop at
length decided to leave England. Mounted on horseback, and
accompanied by three priests, he set out in the direction of
Kent, amidst torrents of rain that compelled him to cut off the
skirts of his long mantle, which were wet and heavy and were
irksome to him. He wandered about in the disguise of a monk, and
under the name of Brother Christian, during twenty days in Kent,
meeting with many adventures. At length he procured a little
vessel, and landed on the 2nd of November, 1164, in the countship
of Boulogne, near Gravelines, whence he repaired on foot and in
the same disguise, to the convent of Saint-Bertin, near Namur.
{160}
The fugitive's first thought was to ask shelter of the King of
France and protection of Pope Alexander II., who was then
residing at Sens; the anti-Pope Victor held possession of Rome.
The ambassadors of Henry II. had preceded Becket at both courts;
but Louis the Young, an enemy to the King of England and
therefore unwilling to do the latter a service, haughtily
declared that it was the ancient privilege of the French crown to
succor the oppressed against their persecutors. The Pope at first
received Becket's representative rather coldly; but he ended by
deciding to brave the anger of Henry II. and received the fallen
archbishop with great kindness. "If I had been willing to do the
bidding of the king in all things," said Becket, "nobody in his
kingdom would now be as great as I; but I know that I obtained
through him the position which I occupy to the prejudice of the
liberty of the Church; that is the reason that I throw myself at
your Holiness's feet; your Holiness must appoint a new primate of
England." The Pope did not accept this resignation, and having
caused the Constitutions of Clarendon to be read to the prelate,
he condemned them, with the exception of six clauses; then
raising the archbishop, whom he had reinvested with his
ecclesiastical dignity, "Go," said he, "and learn in poverty to
console the poor." The Pope assigned the abbey of Pontigny to him
as his residence, and authorized him to excommunicate the enemies
of the Church.
When Henry heard of the success of his adversary, his anger knew
no bounds; not only did he confiscate both the goods and revenues
of Becket and the priests who had followed him, but he included
in his revenge all the members of the archbishop's family as well
as all his friends. He proscribed more than four hundred persons,
men, women, and children, whom he sent, divested of everything,
to Becket, to complain of the misfortune which he had brought
upon them.
{161}
Every day these unhappy people would present themselves at the
convent of Pontigny, breaking the heart of the archbishop, who
found no rest until the time when the combined charity of King
Louis, the Pope, and the Queen of Sicily, provided for the
necessities of the exiles.
Meanwhile, King Henry had on hand grave affairs which would soon
have made him forget his grievances against the archbishop, if he
had been of a less vindictive disposition. The Welsh had
revolted, and the war against them had been unfortunate in
consequence of bad weather; the king had consoled himself for
this by causing the noses of the hostages to be cut off and their
eyes destroyed; but this was not sufficient to appease his anger.
He found satisfaction in Brittany, where he profited by the
rebellion against Conan. Henry took advantage of it to seize upon
the country. He celebrated, in 1166, the marriage of his son
Geoffrey with Constance. Brittany was pacified, but Becket had
just excommunicated all those who held the property of the
Church, and particularly several of the king's favorites, whom he
mentioned by name.
When Henry heard this news, he was at Chinon, near Tours. His
anger was so violent that he threw himself upon his bed, tearing
the clothes, biting the straw of the mattress and howling with
rage. He immediately informed the abbot of Pontigny that if the
order of Cistercians wished to retain their property in the
provinces dependent on the King of England, he must refuse the
shelter of his house to the enemy who so haughtily defied his
sovereign. The abbot went and saw Becket. "God forbid that upon
such injunctions the chapter should think of sending you away,"
he said; "consider for yourself what you had better do." The
archbishop immediately made preparation to leave the place, and
went to the convent of Saint Colomba near Sens, where King Louis
had ordered that he should be received (1168).
{162}
Up to this period political considerations had created an
ill-feeling between the King of France and the King of England,
and in this lay Becket's security; in 1169 similar influences
brought them to an understanding. They met at a solemn conference
at Montmirail, and when the young princes, Henry's sons, had done
homage to the King of France for Normandy, Aquitaine, and
Brittany, the case of Becket was considered, and he was ordered
to appear before the august assembly. The archbishop was growing
weary of his exile, and his protectors were growing weary of
defending him. It was therefore hoped that he would tender his
submission, in order to end the struggle. Becket presented
himself before King Henry with a grave and modest air. Bending
his knee, the archbishop said, "My liege, in all the disputes
which have taken place between us, I submit to your judgment, as
arbitrary sovereign in all points, except the honor of God."
Immediately this restriction was uttered, the king burst into a
passion, and turning towards King Louis, "Do you know," he cried,
"what would happen if I were to accept this reservation?
Everything that should displease him would be contrary to the
honor of God, and I should lose all power. There have been
archbishops at Canterbury much more pious than he, and there have
been kings in England less powerful than I; let him only treat me
as the least pious of his predecessors treated the smallest of
mine, and I shall be satisfied." "Save the honor of God,"
repeated the archbishop. The assembly cried out aloud that it was
past endurance, that the king could ask no less, and that Becket
was too exacting. "Do you wish then to be more than a saint?"
asked Louis angrily, but he got no further concession; and the
two kings remounted their horses without taking leave of the
archbishop, whose fate was now very much harder by reason of the
estrangement of the King of France.
{163}
He was reduced to live by alms, until the day when Louis again
sent for him. "It is to banish us from his dominions," the clergy
said, in alarm; but scarcely had the king seen the archbishop
when he threw himself in his arms. "Forgive me, father," he
cried, "you are right, we were mistaken; we wished to subject the
honor of God to the will of a man. Absolve me." Henry had failed
to fulfil his contracts with King Louis, who had thereupon
hastened to express his approval of Becket's conduct.
A fresh attempt at a reconciliation broke down in consequence of
the king's firm decision never to give to the archbishop the kiss
of peace, with which it was usual to ratify all oaths. Meanwhile
Prince Henry had been crowned in England, his father wishing to
secure the succession to him. Becket's office had been usurped,
the young prince having received the crown from the hands of the
Archbishop of York. The Pope had returned to Rome, after the
death of the anti-Pope Victor, and the displeasure or favor of
the King of England now had fewer attractions or horrors for him.
Henry was afraid that he might authorize Becket to excommunicate
him personally, and to place his kingdom under an interdict, and
he at length yielded, under the advice of the king of France,
with whom he had just effected a reconciliation. In the month of
July, 1170, the two antagonists met within the confines of
Touraine. As soon as the king perceived the archbishop, he came
forward, helmet in hand, and accosted him. They conversed in a
friendly manner, with a certain amount of their old familiarity,
and when they parted from each other, the king said to his
courtiers, "I found the archbishop most favorably disposed
towards me, and if the feeling were not mutual I should be the
worst of men."
{164}
Within two days of this event the reconciliation took
place. Becket bent his knee to the king, who held the stirrup for
the archbishop to remount his horse; but the kiss of peace was
not given. However, the restitution of the archbishop's property
was agreed upon. Henry promised to supply Becket with the money
requisite to defray his travelling expenses to England, and the
two enemies, apparently reconciled, took leave of each other. "I
do not believe that I shall ever see you again," said the
archbishop, looking fixedly at the king. "What! Do you take me
for a traitor?" cried Henry angrily. The prelate only bowed in
answer. He never saw the king again.
The archbishop had proceeded to Rouen, awaiting the money which
had been promised to him, and during the sojourn which he was
compelled to make in Normandy, he received frequent warnings of
the dangers which awaited him on the other side of the Channel.
"They will not even allow Becket time enough to eat a whole
loaf," said Ranulph de Broc, who had been excommunicated by him;
but Becket did not take heed of any warnings. "Even," he said,
"if I had to face the certainty of being cut to pieces on the
other side of the Channel, I should not turn back on my way.
Seven years of absence are sufficient for the pastor and for his
flock."
After having waited for four months, he borrowed three hundred
livres of the Archbishop of Rouen, and set sail in a small vessel
which landed him in Sandwich Bay, whereby he avoided an ambush
which had been prepared for him near Dover. A messenger preceded
the prelate, bearing letters of excommunication from the Pope
against the Archbishop of York, the Bishop of London, and the
Bishop of Chichester, who had all taken part in the ceremony of
the coronation of the young king.
{165}
The letters were publicly consigned to the three bishops, who
were enraged beyond measure. It was on the first of December that
Becket returned to England, to the great delight of the people,
but not a single baron came to meet him. The first who passed
were armed and drew their swords; one of the king's chaplains,
who had accompanied the primate, was at great pains to quiet
them, and to protect Becket on his re-entering his episcopal
city. "He gathers serfs round him on his way," said the noblemen,
"and leads them with him." The archbishop had come back to
Canterbury after having attempted to obtain an interview with the
young king, his old pupil, but the latter had refused to see him,
and Becket, confined to his diocese, surrounded himself with the
poor and the peasants, who constituted a rustic guard round him.
Excommunications were still being proclaimed; on Christmas-day,
after having begun his sermon with these words, "_Venio ad vos,
mori inter vos_" (I come to you to die among you), Becket,
reminding his congregation that one of their archbishops had
suffered martyrdom, added, "You will perhaps see another suffer
in the same manner; but, before dying, I will avenge some of the
wrongs done to the Church." He then excommunicated Ranulph and
Robert de Broc, his bitter enemies.
Meanwhile the suspended bishops had crossed the sea, to go and
lay their complaints before King Henry II., who was still in
Normandy. "We throw ourselves at your mercy, in the name of the
Church and State, for your peace and for ours. There is a man who
is inflaming all England; he marches with troops of armed
horsemen and foot-soldiers, prowling around the fortresses,
trying to effect an entrance." Henry had never sincerely forgiven
his old favorite, and he was very angry at these accounts of his
conduct.
{166}
"What!" cried he, "does this wretch who has eaten my bread, who
came to my court a beggar, upon a lame horse, with all he
possessed behind him, insult me with impunity, while not one of
the cowards whom I feed at my table dares to deliver me from a
priest who is so obnoxious to me."
Words like these are always caught up by willing ears. When the
king convoked a council of his barons to decide what was to be
done with Becket, four of their number were absent--Richard
Brito, Hugh de Moreville, William de Tracy, and Reginald
Fitzurse. When the king observed that they were not there, he
became uneasy, and hastened the departure of the Earl of
Mandeville, who was commissioned to arrest Becket. The four
conspirators preceded him.
On the 29th of December, in the morning, they arrived at
Canterbury, followed by a troop of soldiers whom they had
collected together on their way. They wished to secure the help
of the mayor of the town, but the latter refused. The knights
recommended him at least to keep the townsmen quiet, and they
proceeded to the prelate's house with twelve of their friends.
The archbishop was in his room, and the knights sat down on the
floor without saluting him and in silence. No one dared begin.
The archbishop asked their business. "We have come on behalf of
the king," said Reginald Fitzurse, "in order that those you have
excommunicated may be absolved, that the bishops who have been
suspended may be re-established in their positions, and that you
may justify your designs against the king." '"It is not I who
excommunicated the Archbishop of York," said Becket, "but the
Pope himself. As to the others, I will re-establish them if they
will tender their submission."
{167}
"From whom do you hold your appointment as archbishop?" inquired
Fitzurse, "from the Pope or from the king?" "My spiritual office
I hold by the will of God and the Pope," said the primate, "and
my temporal rights from the king." "It is not from the king,
then, that you obtain everything?" "No." The knights were
restless, and were twisting their gloves angrily. "I am
astonished," said Becket, "that men who formerly swore allegiance
to me come into my house to threaten me." "We will do more than
threaten," cried the barons. They thereupon retired hastily.
The priests and attendants who surrounded Becket were alarmed;
they wanted to close all the doors and barricade the house,
begging the bishop to take refuge in the church. He refused.
Already the noise of battle-axes rattling against the entrance
was heard. Fitzurse was endeavoring to break open the door, which
an attendant had shut upon the intruders, who had now come back
with their weapons. The bell of the church was ringing for
vespers. "Since it is my duty, I will go to the church," said
Becket, and, preceded by a priest carrying a cross, he passed
slowly through the cloisters and entered the cathedral. The door
had not given way, but the conspirators had just entered the
palace by the window. The clergy were hastening to close the
doors of the church. "No," said the archbishop, "the house of God
should not be barricaded like a fortress." He was ascending the
steps leading to the choir when Reginald Fitzurse entered
abruptly at the other end of the church. He was brandishing his
sword and crying, "Come, loyal subjects of the king." It was
late; the movements of the conspirators were scarcely observable,
neither could the latter see the priests distinctly. The
archbishop was urged to descend into the crypt. He refused, and
advanced boldly towards the sacrilegious intruders, who were
brandishing their swords within the holy precincts.
{168}
His cross-bearer alone had not fled "Where is the traitor?" cried
a voice. Becket did not answer. "Where is the archbishop?"
repeated Fitzurse. "I am here," said Becket, "but no traitor,
only a priest of the Lord. What are you here for?" "Absolve all
those whom you have excommunicated." "They have not repented, and
therefore I cannot." "You shall die then." "I am ready, in the
name of the Saviour; but I forbid you, by the Lord Almighty, to
touch any of these present, either priests or laymen." At this
moment he received between the shoulders a blow with the flat
part of a sword. "Fly," they cried, "or you are a dead man." The
archbishop did not stir; the intruders endeavored to drag him
out, not daring to kill him in the sanctuary; he was struggling
in their grasp. At length William de Tracy raised his sword and
wounded the archbishop in the head, striking down at the same
time the hand of Edward Gryme, the brave cross-bearer. Becket had
clasped his hands together: "I confide my soul and the cause of
the Church to God, to the Virgin Mary, to the patron saints of
this church, and to St. Denis," he cried. A second thrust from a
sword laid him prostrate upon the ground near St. Bennet's altar;
a third blow split his skull, and the sword was broken on the
paved floor. "Thus perish all traitors," cried one of the
conspirators, and they left the church hurriedly, while the monks
were tearfully laying the archbishop's body out at the foot of
the altar, taking up his blood in vessels, leaving exposed to
view the hair-cloth which he wore, and already revering him as a
martyr. But on the morrow they were obliged to bury him in great
haste in order to spare his dead body the indignity of being
insulted by Ranulph de Broc, who desired to take it away.
{169}
The Archbishop of York publicly declared that Becket had fallen
in his guilt and his pride like Pharaoh, while other bishops
maintained that the body of the traitor ought not to lie in
consecrated ground, and that he should be thrown into the foulest
ditch or be put upon a gibbet to rot. It was forbidden in the
churches to speak of him as a martyr.
Decrees are incapable of influencing the development of public
opinion; King Henry was the first to discover this. Scarcely had
he heard the news, when a profound feeling of repentance for his
imprudent words overcame him; he shut himself up in his private
apartment, and during three days would not see anybody or take
any food. When he awoke from this sullen depression, he
immediately sent an ambassador to the Pope, assuring the latter
of his innocence and of the grief which the death of the
archbishop caused him. At the same time, he hesitated to punish
the murderers, who had acted according to his suggestion, and he
allowed them the benefit of clergy, the crime having been
committed upon the person of a priest. Thus the liberties of the
Church, for which Becket had just died, protected his assassins.
It is related that the latter were stricken with remorse in their
turn, and that they went and threw themselves at the feet of the
Pope, at Rome, who ordered them to make a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land, where they died sincerely penitent. If the story of the
repentance of the murderers is not well authenticated, that of
Becket's posthumous triumph is incontestable. He had not been
buried two years, and King Henry had scarcely obtained
forgiveness of the Pope (1172) by undertaking to support, during
three years, two hundred horsemen intended for the defence of the
Holy Sepulchre, when pilgrims were already proceeding in crowds
to Canterbury Cathedral, begging the protection of the martyr,
canonized by the public voice before being recognized as a saint
by the Church.
{170}
Two more years elapsed, and on the 10th of July, 1174, the king
was proceeding barefooted along the road leading to Canterbury.
Each step he made left behind him a spot of blood; he wore a
pilgrim's dress, and on his arrival descended into the crypt, and
prostrated himself before the tomb. The Bishop of London, from
the pulpit, assured the people of the innocence of the king, of
the profound grief which the death of the archbishop had caused
him, and of the remorse which he experienced for the fit of anger
which had caused the commission of the crime; the king remained
praying. He rose, uncovered his shoulders, and, passing before
the chapter, he received from each monk three strokes from a
knotted rope; Henry then returned to the tomb, still fasting and
praying. He passed the night in the church, and the morning
after, having attended holy mass, he returned to London so
exhausted by the fatigue and severity of his punishment that he
fell ill on his arrival.
During the anxieties which Henry experienced while he was
quarrelling with Becket, he had not neglected external affairs,
and a new kingdom had been added to his vast dominions, a kingdom
insecurely held, however, as yet, and which was to cost England
much blood and many errors before being united completely to his
crown. Henry II. had made the conquest of Ireland.
After having shone with some brilliancy in letters as well as in
the history of religious faith, Ireland had for some time past
fallen back into a state verging on barbarism. Originally
inhabited by different colonies of the Celtic race, she retained
institutions analogous to those of the Highlands of Scotland. The
clans were called septs, the chief was known as a "Carfinny," and
chose his successor or "Tanist" from his own family, without
regard to the laws of primogeniture; when the "Carfinny" died the
Tanist succeeded him and named his own heir presumptive.
{171}
The same rule existed in the four kingdoms of Ulster, Munster,
Leinster, and Connaught. Enmity and rivalry were constant between
these princes; of one hundred and seventy-eight kings who ruled
over Ireland, seventy-one were killed in war and sixty were
murdered. In 1169 the King of Leinster, Dermod MacMorogh, having
been driven from his possessions, had applied to Henry II. for
assistance, offering to take the oath of allegiance to the
English king. But the king was engrossed in his relations with
France, and he contented himself with authorizing English
warriors to support the cause of Dermod if they chose. Having
obtained this permission, a certain number of adventurers went
over to Ireland; the most notable of whom was the son of the Earl
of Pembroke, Richard de Clare, called Strongbow, who took with
him a force of three thousand men. He fought against Dermod's
enemies, married that chief's daughter, and had just inherited
the kingdom of his father-in-law, when the king, annoyed at his
success, wrote for him, recalling him to England. Strongbow
immediately crossed the sea and came and threw himself at the
king's feet, offering to surrender the town of Dublin to him.
Henry's anger was appeased, and he appointed Strongbow to the
position of seneschal of Ireland. In the following year the king
himself landed in his new dominions with an army so numerous that
the Irish soon made a nominal submission. Henry, however,
intended not to act as a conqueror; he was taking possession, he
said, of Ireland, by virtue of an old bull of Pope Adrian which
conferred upon him the sovereignty of this new kingdom by the
right which the Popes claimed to exercise over all the islands
recognizing the Christian faith. The Irish Bishops answered this
appeal by meeting together in council. Several wise measures were
adopted for the civilization of the savage regions, where
polygamy was still practised, and where dead bodies were not
always buried.
{172}
But Henry did not attempt to impose the English laws upon his new
subjects. That portion of Ireland occupied by the Normans was
alone assimilated to England; the rest of the country remained
subject to its old customs. When Henry returned from thence on
the 17th of April, 1173, nominating Hugh de Lacy governor of
Ireland, he left behind him territories which his armies had not
overrun, and an undisciplined population, who took advantage of
his absence to rebel. The jealousies of the English noblemen
established in Ireland still further complicated the difficulties
of the government. Harassed by their mutual recriminations, the
king would depose, replace, or recall the rivals; disorder
reigned in all parts, when, in 1185, the king, having obtained
from the Pope the investiture of Ireland for his son John, sent
the young prince there with his court. The arrogance, the
severity, and the follies of the new sovereign soon caused fresh
insurrections. John grew alarmed and returned precipitately to
England, leaving to Sir John de Courcy the care of pacifying
Ireland; the lieutenant succeeded in this, and, having become
Earl of Ulster, he governed the new kingdom with as much firmness
as good sense, until, at the end of the reign of Henry II., a
prosperous state of affairs was inaugurated, to which Ireland had
not been accustomed under native kings.
Henry had begun to appropriate Ireland to himself, but without
being able to give his personal attention to that country. He was
a prey to bitter and ever-increasing embarrassments. The crowning
of his son, Prince Henry, had excited in the young man an
ambitious spirit which his father-in-law, Louis VII., constantly
encouraged. He asked for the immediate cession of Normandy or
even of England, in order to be able, he said, to maintain his
position and that of the queen his wife.
{173}
"Wait until my death," replied the king, "you shall have wealth
and power enough." He intended to bequeath England to Henry as
well as Normandy, Anjou, and Maine. Aquitaine he designed for
Richard, Brittany for Geoffrey, and Ireland for John. The young
princes had even already been invested with these magnificent
provinces; but, encouraged by their mother, the vindictive
Eleanor, to whom Henry II. had always been a good husband, they
plotted to seize their inheritance beforehand. In March, 1173,
Prince Henry, who had slept with his father at Chinon, found a
means of escaping during the night, and of reaching the territory
of the King of France. A few days afterwards, his two brothers,
Richard and Geoffrey, also escaped, and Queen Eleanor prepared to
follow her sons; but she was captured by her husband's emissaries
and brought back to England, where she was imprisoned until King
Henry's death.
The father had sent to Paris to ask that his son should be given
up to him; the ambassadors found the young prince clad in regal
robes, seated by the side of Louis VII. "We come from Henry, King
of the English, Duke of Normandy and of Aquitaine, Count of Anjou
and of Maine," began the messengers. "No," said the king,
interrupting them, "King Henry is sitting here, and he has
commissioned you to deliver no message. If you wish to speak of
the king his father, he is dead since his son wears the crown. If
he still has any pretensions to the title of king, I will soon
cure him of them." In accordance with these haughty words, the
young prince caused a seal similar to that of England to be made,
and declared, by letters addressed to the Pope, to his brothers,
and to all the great noblemen of England and of the French
states, that he was at war with his father in order to avenge the
death of Becket, "my foster-father, whose assassins are still
safe and sound.
{174}
I am unable (he added) to bear this criminal negligence, for the
blood of the martyr cries aloud in my ears. My father is incensed
against me; but I do not fear to offend him when the honor of God
is the cause." The Kings of France and Scotland, the Count of
Flanders, and a great number of English and Norman noblemen sided
with the conspirators; King Henry began to see himself abandoned
by his most intimate friends.
He was a match for his four sons. "The King of England neither
rides nor sails," said King Louis, alarmed by the rapidity of his
rival's movements; "he is believed to be in England, and he is in
France; he is believed to be in Ireland, and he is in England."
An army of Brabantines had been raised, and King Henry II. had
called upon all those monarchs who had sons, to support him in
his quarrel; endeavoring to secure their help by the
consideration of the disorder which would reign in their own
dominions if their own children followed the example set by the
English princes. He had implored the Pope to help him to defend
the patrimony of St. Peter, as he called the islands of England
and Ireland; the pontiff replied by sending legates to put an end
to this unnatural struggle; but blood had already been shed. In
the month of June, 1173, the Count of Flanders had entered into
Normandy; but his brother, who was his heir, having been killed
at the first siege, he retired from this impious struggle and
re-entered his states. King Louis VII. and Prince Henry were
defeated by the Brabantines; Prince Geoffrey did not meet with
success in Brittany; a conference convoked at Gisors again
excited their animosity. The war was carried on with alternate
successes and reverses; the insurrection had spread as far as
Aquitaine; the Scots had crossed the frontier, and several towns
of England were in the hands of the insurgents, when, in the
month of July 1174, Henry hastily left Normandy.
{175}
On reaching England he proceeded directly to Becket's tomb. It
was on the morrow of his humiliation and repentance, when he was
already in his bed, overcome by fever, that it was announced to
him that an attendant of Ranulph de Glanville wished to speak
with him. The king inquired whether Ranulph, who was one of his
intimate friends, was well. "My lord is well," replied the
messenger, "and your enemy, the King of Scotland, is in your
hands." The king trembled. "Say that again," he said. The man
tendered some letters to the king; it appeared that on the 12th
of July Glanville had surprised the King of Scotland, William the
Lion, in the neighborhood of Alnwick, and had made a prisoner of
him. This good news effected a cure of the king's disorder; the
people again thronged round his standards. In a few days the
insurrection was quelled in all parts, and Henry, after this
triumph, recrossed the sea with his army to relieve Rouen, which
was besieged by the King of France, Prince Henry, and the Count
of Flanders. A battle took place under the walls of the town,
which was decided in favor of the King of England; the princes
were for the time reduced to obedience. Richard resisted for a
greater length of time than his brothers; he had acquired a taste
for warlike achievements, which were to become the passion of his
life, and he thought besides that he was upholding the rights of
his mother, to whom he was tenderly attached. But he yielded at
length. An interval of peace at length allowed Henry II.
breathing time and leisure to organize the great institution
which he wished to bequeath to England. It was in 1176 that he
definitively established, with the help of his friend Ranulph de
Glanville, the courts of justice, where the assizes were
regularly held for all the civil and criminal business, and which
were presided over by itinerant judges, who made a circuit from
town to town to direct the decisions of the knights of the shire
who then represented the jury.
{176}
Louis VII. was dead. Philip Augustus had ascended the throne
(1180), and war was about to break out afresh. King Henry, who
was now reconciled to his eldest son, wished to compel Richard to
do homage to his brother for the duchy of Aquitaine; the prince
refused, saying that he would not compromise the rights of his
mother. She was greatly beloved in her hereditary dominions, and
the poet Bertrand de Born, powerful among his countrymen, and
devoted to Eleanor's cause, was intriguing successively with
whichever of the three sons appeared the most incensed against
his father. King Henry had caused a picture to be painted
re-presenting four young eagles attacking their sire. "If John
does not join his brothers," he said sadly, "it is because he is
too young."
Richard at length made peace with his father, but Henry and
Geoffrey had raised the standard of rebellion in their turn. They
had invited the king to a conference at Limoges (1183); when he
approached the town he was saluted with a volley of arrows, of
which one wounded his horse in the neck. "Ah! Geoffrey," cried
the king, "what has your unhappy father done to you that you
should thus make a target of him for your arrows?" The prince
laughed at this bitter remonstrance. "We cannot live in peace
amongst ourselves," he said, "without being in league against my
father." His brother Henry was disgusted at this evidence of his
brother's hard-heartedness, and joined the king for awhile; but
soon after, having been again annoyed, he departed and joined
Geoffrey and the Poitevins, who had revolted, when he fell ill at
Limoges.
{177}
In terror, he sent, begging his father to come and grant his
forgiveness. The king did not dare to accede to the request; his
friends would not allow him to venture into the camp of his sons,
who had so recently attempted his life. He contented himself with
sending a ring by the Archbishop of Bordeaux, assuring the prince
of his forgiveness. The prelate found the young man dying upon a
bed of ashes, a prey to remorse and despair. He died pressing to
his lips the ring which his father had sent to him, greatly
distressed at not having received the benediction upon which he
had hitherto set so little value.
A few days afterwards Limoges was taken, and the instigator of
the insurrections, Bertrand de Born, was made a prisoner; he was
brought before the king to receive sentence; he said nothing, and
did not defend himself. "Bertrand," said the king, "you pretend
that at no time do you require one-half of your talents; know
that in this instance the whole of them would avail you little."
"Sire," replied Bertrand, "it is true that I said that, and I
told the truth." "And I think that your talents have deserted
you," cried Henry angrily. "Ah! Sire," said Bertrand, "my powers
deserted me on the day that the brave young king, your son, died;
on that day I lost all my powers." The king burst into tears.
"Bertrand," he cried, "it is but right that my son's death should
have unnerved you, for he was more attached to you than to
anybody else in the world; and I, for love of him, give you your
life, your goods, and your castle."
The poet Dante did not forgive Bertrand de Born, as king Henry
had done, for he placed him in hell. "I saw," said he, "and I
seem to see it still, a headless trunk approach us, and the head
being cut off, it held it in one hand by the hair, like a
lantern: 'Know that I am Bertrand de Born, who gave bad advice to
the young king.'"
{178}
In the midst of the general grief a kind of union was effected
between the father and his remaining sons, as well as between the
father and mother. Eleanor was brought back to Aquitaine, and
restored to liberty; but this mutual understanding, so rare in
this royal family, only lasted for a short time; Geoffrey asked
the king to grant him the countship of Anjou, and on being
refused, he retired to the court of France: death awaited him
there; he was thrown in a tournament, and trampled under foot by
the horse before the attendants could come to his assistance.
Henry had two sons remaining; Richard, who was afterwards called
"Cœur-de-Lion," and who had inherited that majestic countenance
which Peter of Blois attributes to his father, whose almost
square face resembled a lion's head; and John Lackland, as his
father laughingly called him, who had not taken part in the
revolts of his brothers, and whom Henry esteemed very much for
that reason. Richard had already shown fresh signs of
insubordination. Eleanor had returned to her prison at
Winchester, when a call from the East brought a short truce to
the hostilities between France and England. Jerusalem had just
been retaken by the Mussulmans (1187); Pope Urban II. had died of
grief in consequence. Gregory VIII., who had succeeded him,
called the Christians from the West to the deliverance of the
Holy Sepulchre, and the Archbishop of Tyre was preaching in favor
of the crusade. King Henry was the first to respond to the
appeal. Richard assumed the cross as well as his father.
Philip-Augustus manifested the same desire. A conference was held
under the elm of Gisors, the famous tree at the foot of which
many treaties had been ratified which had remained in force but
for a very short time. The treaty of peace which was there agreed
to in the name of the crusade proved to be no more durable than
the others, and the King of France in his anger caused the tree
to be rooted up, saying that no more perfidy should be witnessed
under its branches.
{179}
It was rumored that the King of England had the intention of
bequeathing his kingdom to his youngest son. Richard had another
grievance against his father; the latter had for some time been
detaining in a castle the Princess Alice of France, who had been
promised in marriage to Richard, and far from conniving at the
union, he was endeavoring to obtain a divorce from Eleanor, with
the intention, it was said, of marrying the young princess
himself. Richard demanded an explanation from his father of these
two infringements of his rights, asking for his father's consent
to his marriage and an acknowledgment of himself as heir to the
throne of England.
Henry did not reply; he at length proposed to marry the Princess
Alice to John Lackland. Richard was not infatuated with her, for
he already dreamt of Berengaria of Navarre; but he looked upon
his father's proposal as an indication of his intentions
respecting John. "Is it really so," cried he; "I did not think it
possible, but now, my friends, you will see what you little
expected," And, kneeling before King Philip-Augustus, he placed
his hands in that monarch's, and at once did the latter homage
for the duchies of Normandy, Brittany, and Aquitaine, as well as
for the countships of Poitou. Anjou, and Maine, asking for
assistance in recovering his rights. Philip-Augustus accepted him
as a vassal and liege, and immediately gave up to Richard the
castles which he had taken from the latter's father.
{180}
This time the shot had been sent straight to the king's heart. In
vain did he retire to Saumur, to recommence preparations for war:
his energy and decision had failed him; he awaited the arrival of
the Pope's legates, who were entrusted with the care of
attempting a reconciliation, and contented himself with rewarding
the noblemen of Normandy, who had always remained true to him.
When the legate arrived, King Philip-Augustus, who was too clever
not to discover the weariness of the old king, insisted on the
conditions of peace offered at the last conference, asking
besides that John should accompany his brother in the crusade,
without which he threatened to cause the greatest disorder in the
kingdom. Henry refused. "Then the truce is at an end," said the
King of France. The legate threatened to place the kingdom under
an interdict, and to excommunicate Philip and Richard. "I am not
afraid of your mercenary anathemas," said Philip; and Richard,
drawing his sword, cried, "I will kill any insensate who dares to
excommunicate two princes in a single breath!" His friends
restrained his violence; the legate remounted his mule and
retired in great haste.
The French marched towards Le Mans; the town was taken and
pillaged. Aquitaine, Poitou, and Brittany revolted; treason was
rife among the English barons. Henry felt that he was beaten; he
sued for peace, declaring himself ready to accept the
propositions of Philip and of Richard. The two monarchs met upon
a plain between Tours and Azay. Richard was not present; while
they were conferring in the open field, and still on horseback,
the thunder roared and a violent storm broke forth. The nerves of
King Henry had been shaken by disease and trouble. He reeled in
his saddle, and his servants sustained him with difficulty. When
he had recovered his senses, he was too ill to continue the
conference, and the proposals for peace were sent to his
head-quarters. They were hard and humiliating; an indemnity for
King Philip, permission for his vassals to do homage to Richard,
the restoration of the Princess Alice to a person commissioned to
deliver her with all honor to her brother, or her affianced
husband on the return from the crusade, and so forth.
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King Henry II. stretched upon his couch, listened in silence.
When an end was made he asked to see a list of the barons who had
pledged themselves to maintain the cause of Philip and Richard.
The first name was that of his son John, count of Mortagne; the
unhappy father uttered a cry of pain. "John, the son of my
heart," he exclaimed, "for love of whom I have brought upon
myself all these misfortunes--he, too, has betrayed me!" He was
assured that it was so. "Let all things henceforth proceed as
they will," he said, "I have no longer any regard for myself or
this world." And he turned his face again to the wall in the
bitterness of his soul. His son Richard had followed him, and
leaning towards him asked for the kiss of peace in ratification
of the treaty. The king did not refuse it as he had done before
in the case of Becket; but Richard had scarcely left the chamber
when the indignant father muttered between his teeth, "May I live
to avenge myself on thee!"
He gave orders to be carried to Chinon, oppressed with a profound
melancholy, which was succeeded by a violent fever. In his fits
he raised himself in his bed, invoking the vengeance of Heaven
upon his children. "Shame, shame upon a vanquished king--a king
dispossessed of his rights," he cried; "accursed be the day when
I was born; accursed be the children that I leave behind me!" He
directed his attendants to carry him into the church, where he
expired at the foot of the altar on the 6th of July, 1189. He had
not yet completed his fifty-fifth year, but his features were
worn like those of an aged man. When Richard, stricken with
horror at the intelligence which he had received, hastened to
Fontevrault, whither the corpse of his father had been removed
without ceremony, some one had surrounded the royal forehead with
a golden fringe in imitation of a crown, and it had been
necessary to employ hired horses in order to convey to his last
resting-place the powerful master of so many dominions.
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Richard approached the coffin. A drop of blood appeared under the
nostrils of the corpse. "Yes, it is I who have killed him!" cried
Richard, stricken with repentance. He fell on his knees beside
the dead body of his father, remained there a moment prostrate,
then rising, went out precipitately.
Ten years later, when Richard was dying at the siege of Chalus,
he ordered that his body should be conveyed to Fontevrault, to be
interred at the feet of his father.